


Hide Your Soul Out of His Reach (Shiver to That Broken Beat)

by anythingcanhappenchild



Series: Soldier [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: (from Nyssa's perspective), Angst, Can be read as friendship or early relationship, Can work as a Stand Alone, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Don’t copy to another site, F/F, Gen, Nyssa's POV, POV Second Person, Sara Lance Needs a Hug, Super Vague References to the Amazo, discussion of suicide, look friends more Sara angst, whichever you prefer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingcanhappenchild/pseuds/anythingcanhappenchild
Summary: “Does that make it right,” she croaks.(She picks up the knife.)You’re so grateful she’s spoken, you’ve no answer for her.No answer but the one you’ve been taught, “What is more important, your guilt or his comfort?”ORSara makes the best decision she can from a set of horrible choices, and Nyssa watches the aftermath.





	Hide Your Soul Out of His Reach (Shiver to That Broken Beat)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I hope you all enjoy this! I considered having this from Sara's POV, but decided it was angsty enough as it is.
> 
> Please see the end notes for possible content/trigger warnings.

She’s crumpled by the river when you find her, kneeling with her palms on the ground and chin tucked against her chest. You’d almost believe she was praying if you didn’t know any better – she believes in God, but also believes he’s forsaken her.

Or that if he hasn’t, then he should.

(“This was your folly Ta-er al-Sahfer. Fix it.”

A knife is pressed into her hands, and she jerks backwards from the force of his words.)

She doesn’t turn as you walk closer, and a reprimand has almost fallen off your lips before you realize her intention, and then suddenly you are no longer sure how to proceed, how to bring her back from this ledge before she jumps. Or before the ground crumbles beneath her. 

She doesn’t turn when your hand falls onto her shoulder. A shoulder you’ve just noticed is shaking. Her entire body wracked with trembles as she bites her lip to hold back sobs – you are far more familiar with this expression than you ever wanted to be.

(The knife falls to the ground, but not from defiance. She breaks from her reserve for the first time in weeks, and you’ve no way of knowing if this burden was growing that entire time or if the idea of this act alone is enough to shatter her resolve.)

“Sara,” you whisper, because she isn’t Ta-er al-Sahfer right now. She isn’t Sara either, but you have no other names to try, and the one word pushes hard enough at her cracks that she pitches forward with a desperate wail, a keening scream that dissolves into sobs almost immediately.

You think about her laughing at your father’s intimidation games, and feel your throat swell for the first time in what feels like years – perhaps it has been years, but the thought scares you, for some reason, and you aren’t sure why – because you can’t reconcile the two, the girl who stared down your father, giggling at his actions because ‘God, are all of you this dramatic?’, can’t be this same woman curled on the ground in defeat. 

(She’s fallen to her knees now, begging Ra’s to reconsider. 

If she were someone else you may think this a ploy to ease her own conscience, a way of saying ‘I did everything I could, there was nothing else to be done’ but the frantic look in her eyes stops you.

She must know Ra’s doesn’t respond to begging. But then, she’s never tried has she? Detests the act with a vehemence borne from trauma and fierceness fostered by pride.) 

And you’ve no way of helping. No idea what to do.

You found Sara half-starved and delirious on an island, yet she tried for escape as soon as she awoke.

You’ve listened to the horrors she faced on the Amazo and Lian Yu, and watched her defiance grow, not weaken as Ra’s forced her confessions from her.

You’ve seen her struggle to stand after taking a blow, remember being certain she would die in a week, the way she faltered and didn’t learn and couldn’t stand up quickly enough to avoid Ra’s disapproving eye. 

But she lived. She lived and regained her feet and _learned_.

Everything has taught you Sara will survive anything, but looking at her now – you aren’t sure.

(He stares at her. It would be amazing, the way he can convey such disgust without changing expression, if it weren’t so horrible.

“It is your decision, Ta-er al-Sahfer,” he says, and you look away from the hope that fills her expression, “but if you do not kill him, I will return him to Nanda Parbat, and you will learn how long torture can last.”

You are glad you aren’t watching her, the choked off gasp is hard enough to hear.)

You’ve no way of helping, no idea what to do, so it isn’t your words that fall from your lips as you yank her upright, “There is no reason for this Ta-er al-Sahfer. You followed The Demon’s orders.” But her expression doesn’t change, not to disgust at you or your father, not to anger at your words, not even to pity – an expression you’ve grown uncomfortably used to seeing. 

(She stares back at the boy, kneeling in the dirt, tears streaked down his cheeks.

His parents are already dead, their burgeoning empire in ruins, and order restored to the area.

Any hope he felt, when he saw one of parent’s enemies beg for his release disappeared at Ra’s’ words. Now his hands were shaking – he’d heard stories of the techniques perfected by the League, and knew what laid ahead if this enemy didn’t finish her task.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice cracking, and you wonder if Sara knows what he’s begging for.)

You shake her, the tightness in your throat growing every second that she stays simultaneously detached and despairing. “You think the alternative would be better? This was a test for you, and you passed – this is not common, and it is done. If you failed, he would have spent weeks wishing for death, praying for a way out.”

“Does that make it right,” she croaks.

(She picks up the knife.)

You’re so grateful she’s spoken, you’ve no answer for her. 

No answer but the one you’ve been taught, “What is more important, your guilt or his comfort?”

(She stumbles as she walks, falling to her knees again, this time in front of the boy.)

“I can’t do this, I can’t.”

(She’s taller than him, even as they both kneel.)

“You have no choice.”

(She whispers, “close your eyes.”)

She only sobs in response.

(He does, confusion and a sudden vestige of hope blooming on his face as she cups his cheek.)

“It is over Sara, it is over.”

“Maybe it’s not the only thing that should end today.”

(Her angle is off when she cuts his throat, but he barely has time to open his eyes before he’s gone, falling with the gravity into her arms.)

Anger flushes through you – no, she can’t do this, she can’t.

(She’s coated in the spray of blood, and she hasn’t been dismissed, but Ra’s does not speak as she walks away.)

You practically growl as you unsheathe your dagger and place it in front of her, “Go on then, end it.”

(He nods to you after a moment, dismissing you. 

And you’re grateful he cannot read minds, or he’d know the only reason you didn’t chase after her before, was that your feet felt rooted to the ground.)

“What’s the catch,” she whispers and you’re not sure why it hurts so much.

“You know the catch, Sara, or you would have walked off that cliff weeks ago.” She looks startled, like she thought you didn’t see her sitting on the cliff edge, or didn’t know what she was thinking. “You think this will help, but it will not. You will what? Assuage your guilt, to leave the same people to die by someone else’s hand? Render that boy’s death meaningless? After all, another child will die at the hands of your replacement, more than one, if need be …. This will help no one but yourself.” 

And she closes her eyes. 

“It is your choice.” You can’t help but laugh cruelly, “Go ahead, I should even be able to have your family spared – no one to punish if you are truly dead. And you can leave others to deal with the evil in the world, even if no one else would have been as kind to your target as you were today.” Anger burns through your veins – _she can’t do this_ ¬– but you’re no longer sure who it’s directed at.

Her? For wanting an escape from this life she doesn’t understand, wasn’t born into. Or yourself? For being unable to instill the lessons all those born to the League know, all those who travel and fight to join learn willingly, readily, or for being unable to keep her succumbing to this needless guilt.

She opens her eyes, and you know, then, that she saw what she wanted – imagined ending this life as retribution for her actions, imagined having only one last person to kill, imagined a way out of the League without her family’s deaths hanging over her head. 

You wonder if she listened as well, if she heard what you said and what you couldn’t say – the others hate their targets not themselves, why don’t you?, the others would feel no guilt at all, why must you?, don’t you know I need you stay alive? please do not do this.

She stares at the dagger a moment, before knocking it out of reach.

Her smile is fractured when she speaks, “What’s more important.”

(You find her kneeling by the river, and you wonder if she’s broken.)

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Depiction of murder of a child, thoughts and plans of suicide (from an outside POV), very bad ideas/stereotypes surrounding suicide (i.e. discussion about suicide as a selfish action), discussion of torture
> 
> Any and all feedback is very much appreciated!


End file.
